


After the dust has settled

by asterCrash



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Black Romance, Bondage, Bondage and Discipline, Bulges and Nooks, Caliginous Romance | Kismesis, Dubious Consent, F/F, F/M, Group Sex, How many tags can I put here?, I'm just going to keep adding more, M/M, Moirails With Pails, Multi, Non-Consensual Bondage, Only the EriRose stuff is problematic, Orgy, Sex Pollen, Trans Female Character, Trans Male Character, everything else is just sort of cute and fun, you can't stop me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-28
Updated: 2015-06-28
Packaged: 2018-04-06 15:06:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4226454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asterCrash/pseuds/asterCrash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“So you're saying any troll will get with any other troll while they're on this stuff? Holy shit it'd be like Nepeta's shipping wall came to life.”</p><p>After the game a celebration is underway as the trolls work towards the continuation of their race with the help of an Alternian aphrodisiac. Rose and Roxy take advantage of the distraction to visit Eridan in his cell and put the drone dust to their own uses.</p>
            </blockquote>





	After the dust has settled

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nezumimurasaki](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nezumimurasaki/gifts).



A girl whirls and turns atop a table among her cheering friends, fuchsia lights glowing up her most sensitive skin. Two clear lines of arousal fueled bioluminescence ride up her spine and an artwork of flowing curves and spirals pours down the front of her thorax, pooling into a glowing nexus of colours and mayhem between her hips. The transparent material floating around her as she dances madly is her only covering, but among her friends she no longer feels the need to hide herself. With a tilt she leaps from the table and into the lap of her moirail, kissing him as deeply as she knows how. Nothing is holding her back from what she wants anymore. She stays cradled in the arms of her quadrant-smeared lover for some time, as the riotous party continues around her. After fighting their way through two universes and three games, through life and death and resurrection, they've all earned their reprieve and a chance to cut loose. She feels herself slither out from between her legs and feels a similar stirring in the lap beneath her. In a crowded room with the other heroes of time and space and life and all the other aspects of the universe she doesn't care who sees her. Her matesprit sits on a couch opposite and even the briefest glance into his newly restored eyes tells her everything she needs to know, of his love and his acceptance of her love. She couldn't be happier.

\--

You wake in the uncomfortable cold of your cell as a pail of water is dumped on you. You barely have time to begin a growled retort before the deviant strikes you across the face with the bucket itself and discards it onto the floor. These aliens are obscene beyond belief. You taste salt in the damp liquid running down your face and you wonder if it was a courtesy to royalty or their idea of mockery.

“Eridan,” She says your name like she shouldn't be calling you 'Sir' “wake up, you have company.”

Before you stands the fakey-fakemage herself and the one that looks to be her dancestor. The former's expression is set with the stern rigor you'd known her for and the latter is bearing an impressive impression of a seadweller's sharktooth grin. You bear your fangs in the appropriate response, pleased to see they can at least observe _some_ social niceties. This, however, earns you an open-handed slap across the face because humans are _glubbing insane_.

“Do you know why we're here tonight, Eridan?” Your one-time potential kismesis begins with the standard interrogatey 'let’s pretend the prisoner knows things' routine. You never could get your bearings with this one, one second she'd be telling you she's not interested like it wasn't obvious how much she wanted you black, and then the next she'd just blow up your computer with her totally not-real fake magic. Why would she even bother pretending to not be into you if she's just going to come on to you as hard as possible? You get that you're attractive but some people just have no sense of how desperate they look. Walking in here and hitting you with a bucket and not even trying to insult you a little? She must be out of her pan if she thinks you're just going to give it up without any kind of banter first and wow she's hitting you again. Her dancestor grabs her hand before she can keep trying to push your face in with her fists. Jumping straight in with the ashen stuff is also pretty forward but it's better than having the other human punch you in the snout to establish superiority.

“We're here” chimes in the sing-song voice of the dancestor and wow that is harsh on your auricular sponge clots “because there's a party on tonight!”

“And you weren't invited.” Cuts in earth-human number one. You're not sure you're that much more offended about not being invited because you're already pretty damn offended that the first thing your fellow trolls do when you find yourself alive again is tie you up and throw you in a cell. The touching reunion had consisted largely of every available troll and human pinning Kanaya to the ground and then arguments about who would have to tie you up. Equius, having sufficient though unexplained experience with rope and sufficient STRENGTH to hold you, was conscripted into the job. He spent the entire time telling you in as many ways as possible that tying you up was completely platonic and demanding that you not insinuate that this was some form of flirting. You do however think the musclebeast doth protest too much, because he did an amazing job on these ropes. Really if bondage was your thing he'd be your guy, you can barely even wiggle your frond nubs the way they're tied above your head. A leather belt is keeping your hips flush against the cool stone wall and your ankles are bound in chains, spread just enough to make you feel vulnerable without actually being uncomfortable and wow now the smiley one is slapping you. Probably not a good time for reminiscing.

“Why do you think you weren't invited, Eridan?” Again with the angry one pretending you know things. You're not sure why your friends are doing this to you. You were only trying to save your own hide and Fef's too but ever since people have been attacking you left, right and glubbing centre.

“I don't know.” You admit, because it's easier than thinking of an actual answer.

“And why do you think I'm here now, Eridan?”

“I don't glubbing know!”

“Because Kanaya still wakes up screaming and clutching her thorax where you put a hole through her. Because she still cries when she remembers losing the matriorb. Because she couldn't let the new one out of her sight for months. I'm here, Eridan, because you hurt what's mine and now you're going to suffer.”

You are so fucked.

“And I tagged along because Rose told me you were talking shit about wizards.”

You are so very fucked.

\--

In the heart of the meteor a celebration is underway and a young empress is curled tightly against her moirail. Their breath runs ragged from even the meager contact between their respective bulges as all sense of social propriety gives way to biological imperative. Turning in his lap to straddle her lover, the seadweller marvels as the subdermal lights, which even for her elite branch of the hemospectrum are considered a rare gift, project dappled colours across the grey of his torso. His skin has darkened so much while she was dead, only a few seasons away from his final molt into adulthood, and he is nothing like the wriggler she once knew. What once looked so impetuous and tyrannical on a young man she now sees as the bluster of a creature trying to play a role he wasn't hatched for. She could never have held pity for him then but now she can't imagine any other emotion. Though for all social appearances theirs is a purely pale relationship it's been no secret how flushed they can be in private, and tonight the cuttlefish is out of the cage, their bodies intertwined for all to see and their bulges similarly entangled.

With a trill she lowers herself onto his writhing trollhood. While normally this would take some effort on both parts tonight they slide together like a hot knife into butter. As he grows to fill her insides she can only describe through moaning how much more intense the sensation is with the dust flowing through her. Every torpid movement of his bulge lights a fire inside as he writhes within the folds of her nook. They've barely begun for the night but putting herself on such a display has left the fuschia blood wanting a new colour to coat herself in. She hopes he doesn't last long at all, hopes to drench herself in his material and run it up her thorax to filter the lights that glow beneath her skin. She wants everyone to see her in his colour. The thoughts and the sensation combine within her and set her lights to flicker with the rush of her breath as she rides her moirail for all he's worth.

Atop her lover the empress takes the time to look around the room and see her people and a few of their alien companions getting into the spirit of the evening. With the air rich with drone dust few among them feel the need to resist their baser desires and few could resist if they wanted to. This is why it's important everyone agreed to this beforehand, it would take a pretty awful person to dose someone with the dust unless they asked for it first!

\--

Before you have time to process just how fucked you are Lalonde the first blows a cloud of some powdery substance (a pollen maybe?) in your face. You admit you're not an expert on human courting traditions but throwing a fistful of flying flower slurry at someone sounds like the messed up thing a primate would do. They didn't evolve from majestic insects so they probably wouldn't have such severe reactions to the presence of certain kinds of pollen and oh gods there's no way she would know about that.

“Roxy, would you care for a biology lesson at this juncture?” Who would have told her? Surely no one was depraved enough to share something like this with the aliens.

“If it involves trolls and their weird junk, then yes. If it involves how finface here's ancestors managed to successfully get it on with fishes, then also yes.” They don't understand the first thing about Alternians or their biology otherwise they would know the heretical mixed breeding theory of seadweller evolution was disproved hundreds of sweeps ago!

“Sadly, Eridan's likely mixed parentage is not the topic of our lesson. Instead what we're discussing today is _drone dust_. You see, Roxy, when the imperial drone comes to town every troll on the block has to produce two buckets of liquid romantic prowess if they don't want to get culled. Sadly, trolls such as Eridan here generally manage to get along with the help of a begrudging moirall or hatefriend. The problem however, is that trolls have a very finicky libido and their pocket octopus won't come out to play unless it's 'twwu wwuvv' or 'twwu hate' as the case may be. Therefore, if your moirail is a romantic failure and you'd rather they not get culled right away, then trolls can turn to a little substance for help. With a whiff of this pollen, naturally occurring on Alternia but brought to you tonight thanks to Kanaya's hard work at the alchemiter, any troll is ready to go in any quadrant instantly.” You can feel the dust twisting in your insides already.

You'd never tried it yourself on Alternia, only six sweeps old when you left, but you'd frequented certain discussion boards for interested trolls and you have a fairly good idea of what it's supposed to feel like. You knew it would burn when it first took effect, but all the posts you read said it was supposed to be a good burn. You feel like your gills are on fire and the room is becoming too bright as your irises swell up to take every detail in.

“You coulda just said you slipped him a roofie, Rose”

“Kanaya didn't spend the last perigree resurrecting date rape, Roxy. They're upstairs right now putting it to use for the future of trollkind. With only twelve surviving members they're going to need all the slurry in all the combinations they can get, and if that means more drug fuelled orgies then so be it.”

“So you're saying any troll will get with any other troll while they're on this stuff? Holy shit it'd be like Nepeta's shipping wall came to life.”

“Indeed, it's sad she and Equius didn't want to attend but there were concerns about his STRENGTH becoming a problem in an altered state of mind so the meowrails have opted out.”

“Aw, I wanted to find out if she purrs while she’s doing it. Hey why isn't he glowing already?”

“That's a good question, the dust should already be getting to him.” It is definitely getting to you as much as you wish it wasn't. Your skin is burning up under your clothes as sweat prickles across every inch of you. Your bulge is mercifully staying put for the moment but you can feel your sheathe dilating in anticipation and your nook is already beginning to feel uncomfortably flushed. “When in doubt, ask the prisoner. Eridan, why are you not glowing?”

“What? Fuck you.” Just because you're horny to high hell doesn't mean you're planning on co-operating with every nonsensical question.

“Wrong answer.” She says, as her fist races into your gut. A little lower and she would have punched you right in the sheath and from the look in her eyes that was very much the threat she intended it to be. While you're still trying to get your breath back she whips a pair of fabric shears bearing Maryam's symbol out of sylladex and gets to work on your sweater. She succeeds in ruining your outfit and cutting a horrible slash right through your symbol, but thoughtfully leaves your scarf intact. Your thorax runs cold as the violet tinged sweat running down you is exposed to the air of your cell. Rose runs an inquisitive and strangely gentle hand down between your rumblespheres and over your stomach. Even your moirail never touched you so pale, if it wasn't for the dust working its way into your bloodstream you'd half flip for her yourself. You're almost grateful she turns away in disgust to talk to her dancestor before you can make any embarrassing noises but you never thought you could feel so bereft from the absence of something so gentle.

“Hey, fishboy, level with us.” the dancestor's attention is on you now and she tweaks your fin for emphasis “You don't have the little lights under your skin that Feferi has. Is that just a rare thing for seadwellers or are you only half a fish-troll?” The tugging on your fins is painful, but after the gentle run of Rose's nails down your thorax even painful feels good.

“Fuck y-ow! Okay, okay, I'm glubbing talking! Bioluminescence is really rare even for seadwellers” You can barely answer her without letting out a moan. “I didn't know Fef could do it, I've never been able to.”

Rose plucks her dancestor's frond nubs off your fin once you spit out the answer and gets uncomfortably in your face once more. With the dust messing with your vision you can hardly see anything else in the room, it's like she's taking up your whole world with this demented pitch fumbling. “That's right, you probably never got to see your _ex_ -moirail in any state of undress. Would it interest you to know she's become something of an exhibitionist in your absence? When we left the party she was table dancing for just about every troll on the meteor and she was having such _fun_ , Eridan. Her lights spun and twirled with her, like a living disco-ball.” 

She seems to be half-drooling at the memory, running her hand idly down your thorax in loose spirals. You know she's trying to make you feel bad, maybe this is what she thinks kismessitude is? You want her to touch you more, you want her to touch you harder or at least bring her claws into play but she keeps running those soft white frond nubs so lightly across your skin. You're getting honkbeastbumps wherever she traces her patterns on you and on any other night that would be amazing in and of itself but with the dust working its way through your bloodstream you need so much more than a gentle touch. She's been flirting so black with you, she'll have to start touching you for real soon.

“What you might have trouble believing however, is the identity of her new moirail. After having such trouble with a whiny highblood like yourself it seems she’s decided to only share her quadrants with the bottom end of the hemospectrum.” Fuck, pailing Sol wasn’t enough? She has to rub your face in Fef’s continual infatuation with weak and helpless things when right now _you’re_ the one tied up while that shit for blood struts around like cock of the walk.

“It's been no secret to anyone with eyes, they may be moirails in name but you can just tell from the way he walks that Feferi's been filling him up every night of the last perigree. Does that upset you? That the flushed-pale relationship you wanted so badly from her she gives, not to you of your exalted blood, but to the only member of the party who's not even on the hemospectrum?” Wait, she couldn’t be talking about him could she?

“Did it occur to you that with the way the party upstairs is going the new hemospectrum will have an awful lot of red in it and not that much violet at all? Maybe you can be the pariah this time! Living your life in fear of your friends finding out just how brightly coloured that slurry of yours really is. Meanwhile Karkat's descendants can idly while away their days complaining about how unappreciated they are.” Your eyes are stinging. You choose to believe this is also a side effect of the dust, as there’s no way you could be crying right now.

“But rubbing your face in Feferi’s new quadrants isn’t all we’re here for. No, since our new empress and glorious troll friendleader have both decreed you’re going to stay in the land of the living for a while longer we needed to come up with more creative method of making you suitably sorry for the hurt you’ve caused and/or wizards you’ve slandered.”

“Hence the roofie” chimes in the smiley one in blue.

“Yes, hence the chemical assistance. It seems a fitting punishment for the way that you’ve acted that our prince of hope should be left hopelessly aroused with the realisation that no one is coming to give you relief. You’ve pushed away all of the people who would have called you friends out of your desperation to get pailed and now you won’t even have your own hand to turn to. And every moment of this agony I want you to be picturing exactly how Feferi will look when—”

\--

A wave of candy red bliss rushes into the empress from beneath and she lets out a scream of desire that echoes across the living block. She's hardly able to focus through the sensation of his material rushing into her but she thinks she hears some of her friends cheering them on. The thought of performing only makes the sensations stronger, and she grinds down hard on her lover's lap to milk him for all he can give her. It will hardly be her last such performance of the evening but she intends to give everyone watching the best show she can give.

She lifts his slumped body up and claims his mouth where everyone can see. She's fine with sharing, and she can see his matesprit standing awkwardly to the side, waiting for his own turn at this bright red beaut, but everyone has to know that this troll is her property. He's still dazed from having his moirail ride him and she can't help but giggle at the vacant look on his face as he's passed off to his flushmate. The two embrace and there's nothing to the way their lips meet that resembles a proper troll's kiss. It's all lips and tongue and hands running through hair, no teeth, no growl to it, only gentle moaning between the two. Among those gathered in attendance there's some question as to how Feferi could come to fill Karkat's pale quadrant if Dave would kiss him like that. However, the empress sees no contradiction to their shared love, and with a parting pap to the cheek she leaves her lover to his matesprit. The hunger within her has not been abated and the sense of need and urgency still rises from her lower half like the lights that course beneath her skin.

She fortunately needs to waste no time in finding a new partner with which to pail as her human metamour had the decency to bring a friend along to play. The brown skinned beauty is not unfamiliar to the empress, but tonight is the first time the human girl has been so bared since acquiring her new aesthetic. A shock of white fur, white to match the colour of those funny ears atop her head, runs down like fresh snow from between her pert little mammalian rumblespheres to disappear into the neon green elastic of her underwear, the sole commitment to modesty on her part, placing her among the conservative few to not yet have abandoned all pretense at clothing within the room.

A casual glance around the living block shows the empress such a rainbow of her people coming together in the most wondrous way she that can imagine with the dust still riding high throughout her body. Jade sandwiched between teal and cobalt, rust riding gold. Her people are so beautiful, seeing them together can only fill her bloodpusher with pride for the race they're continuing. She doesn't let herself dwell on the few absences, can't bring herself to worry for those who made their decisions, whether tonight or sweeps ago. She can only be happy for the brood she has to herself now, and is delighted to welcome a new addition in white coated bronze.

Soft supple hands make contact with her grubscars, a teasing, testing grip that runs along the line of the hard bone, tickling where it means the relatively softer trollflesh beneath. She's either very new to pailing with another species or determined that tickling is considered a proposition. The dust makes complaining undesirable, if not impossible. Fuchsia tinted grey arms curl around a bronze waist and pull the two down to the couches beneath with a laugh. Lights glowing up from the skin of the empress shade the white of clean fur to a lovely pink, the sight of an alien drenched in her colours is image enough to stir the former heiress' bulge back to waking.

A hand halts a claw from reaching into the green of the human's waistband. A pleading look that swells the pity in her bloodpusher stops the empress from pressing forward, and clawtips instead run through lush fur to circle the nubs resting at the tip of the human’s rumblespheres. She's heard from her moirail just how sensitive these can be to a mammal, and how shamefully they enjoy to have them squeezed and pulled and licked and bitten. She feels more than happy to oblige as her new partner continues her own xenobiological exploration. Something between a sigh and a trill squeezes from the throat of the empress as blunted nails run courses across the most sensitive paths of her lights. The illumination cycles through colours other than its native fuchsia in response to the touches, and with inquisitive fingers running across her thorax the empress can only think on how much she wants to be touched, how she wants those fingers to circle her bulge and squeeze tight, how she wants them to ride up the inside of her nook and search her depths for every sensation of pleasure. She writhes under the gentle but firm prodding, squirming underneath the weight above her, bulge lashing infuriatingly at the elastic material protecting the human's genitals from her assault.

The current object of her attentions moans above the seadweller, the scratching of foreign claws against soft fleshy breasts apparently a release great enough to warrant such vocalisations. Her eyes have dilated in a way that has nothing to do with the dim light in the room, and despite the assurances of Kanaya it appears indeed that the newly synthesized drone dust has a similar effect on humankind as it does on trolls. Feferi does her best to be as delicate as she can through the rush of feelings but brown flesh is marked with scorched red lines where her attentions have broken skin due to a sudden intake of breath, or a groaning tense of muscles. Whether by mammalian instinct, an effect of the dust or an inheritance from her lusus the human begins to rut slowly against the length of fuschia bulge pressing into her own crotch. There's a hesitance there, she seems compelled to the movements more than making them of her own accord, the pressure of the dust working its way through her bloodstream and forcing her hips into a gyrating rhythm, running up and down the cool, curling length of pink pleasure. The empress is above all a troll of the conciliatory quadrants and does her best to offer relief, navigating one arm down from the rolling bosom above her to rub gently against the green fabric separating a union of the species.

Seated next to the pair and still within reach, the empress can see her moirail making similar ministrations with his own human. The blond boy has undressed all but the flattening harness strapped around his ribs, the remainder of his hairless torso bared to the room, segmented abdominal muscles like honeycombs clenching and tensing as Karkat works himself into the embrace of the human's nook, one carefully trimmed claw backing it up and working the strangely small human bulge equivalent with just the callous of his thumb.

The empress wishes she'd spent more time getting to know the humans’ anatomy, she wants to make her own partner feel good, she wants to feel good within her. She reaches up and kisses her soft and gentle, because she knows humans like their concupiscent quadrants to be paler than most trolls get from their moirails. She carefully holds her teeth back and instead relies on her tongue, running along the strangely bumpy line of her jaw, licking across her lips and then moving to trail down her throat. Moans accompany her every movement but when licking turns to suction and lips wrap around the delicate skin at the meeting of her neck and shoulder the human gives out an involuntary woof of affirmation. It's very cute, even in an unaltered state of mind the empress could not help but laugh, though with all the attentions she's still suffering herself it comes out as a chortle, to be met with a pout from above. A quick kiss to the lips gets the seadweller back in the human woofbeast's good graces, and an experimental claw once again runs along the waistband of her partner's shorts.

The touch is inquisitive, she's asking permission now, not delving into alien depths. Even through the dust she knows a boundary when she sees one and she wants to be sure, absolutely sure that she's not abusing a friend and blaming the quantity of pollen in the air. Her need is so obvious, clear sweat running down brown skin, her body must be roaring for the pleasure, just as any trolls would with the air so full of aphrodisiac antigens. The dust's fever is present on every visible part of her body, and a stirring from within the green materials indicates it serves the same function on the human form as it does to trollkind. A hesitant nod from her partner followed by a smile of resignation is all the go ahead the empress needs, all the confirmation she can bear to wait for with her own needs so unmet, yet she holds her desires back as much as she can with the dust’s passion burning within her and slowly slides the fabrics off those slim brown hips. She lets her hands course down the length of those seemingly endless legs, tight with the muscles of an active life, the growth of a hiker a stark comparison to her own meaty swimmers' thighs. The garment discarded she lifts herself back up to level with the face of her lover for tonight and (she hopes) friend in the morning. She may be unfamiliar with human anatomy but she knows a bulge when she sees one and she brings her own length to wrap around it, wet fuchsia running slick in spirals around its growing fullness. Her partner whispers something hushed and reverent that sounds an awful lot like “tangle buddies” above the empress and sets to grind against her hips and squeeze their respective bits together.

The empress can't think over the torrent of warmth flooding up and into her, she can barely breath from all the intimate contact as the human reaches down to wrap a soft hand firmly around their conjoined length. After such gentle touches in so many places and all the anticipation leading up to her little xenobiological copulation the sensation of finally being squeezed exactly where she needs it is enough to overwhelm her senses. Her vision is filled up with the endless white of the snow furred chest above her, rising and falling with the rhythm of their mutual thrusting. In spurts she feels herself beginning to release, glorious royal fuchsia pouring out of her in thick jets as she keens with the rush of it, losing herself in the touch, in the feel of fur and flesh and the flushed fucking of a lifetime. It feels like the orgasm must last hours and at some point the human collapses onto her, exhausted and satisfied and holding her so tight and so pale the empress almost regrets that she's already filled that quadrant. A hand touches her shoulder and she can barely open her eyes after the devastation of her release to find her moirail in person, smiling at her while his matesprit lies spent atop the crimson blood she made her own.

The blond human makes some comment to the snow furred one, prompting her to lift off the seadweller's torso and look down to inspect her own. A laugh from above reveals the beautiful white fur that had been pressed against her is now soaked pink, possibly to stain. Flushing, the troll makes apologies, offers to clean up the mess only to be silenced by soft human lips.

And for a time, the empress can only focus on how nice this feels.

\--

You can only focus on how awful this feels.

You already knew humans sucked at understanding quadrants but Rose clearly doesn’t get that you’re not supposed to straight-up emotionally abuse a kismesis. It’s supposed to be a rivalry, you push each other, you don’t ease up, but the goal is making each other into something better. You don’t just take their self-esteem and grind it into the dirt. If her dancestor wasn’t playing auspistice every few minutes you’d probably be on the verge of tears and all through it your body is just screaming at you that you need to find someone to pail with. Why won’t she just bite you? She could sink her teeth into the grey of your chest and make you scream her name, she could rake her claws down your thighs and you’d make all the shameful noises she wanted. But she just stands there and berates you and the sweetest moments are when she can’t hold back anymore and open handed slaps you. The open-handed strikes are getting harder as well, but since that first punch she hasn’t hit you anywhere other than the face.

Your bulge has been trickling out of your sheathe, warm and smooth as heated honey and yet utterly useless. Your body wants it in so many ways, you can feel it like sharp pains in all the places she isn’t touching you, you can feel the need as a thousand daggers and even if she wasn’t trying to drain the last of your hope the effects of the dust are close to driving you mad. For her part your tormentor doesn’t appear to be doing any better, practically frothing at the mouth with each verbal barb, trying to keep her voice from ramping up to screaming on each insult to your honour as a seadweller and a troll. Her dancestor’s been keeping her together, papping her face and shushing her ranting when she can’t end a sentence, stroking her hair and holding her still until she’s calm enough to resume your torture. You wish you’d had a dancestor as good as hers, but you honestly found yours a bit skeevy. There was nothing you could do that he wouldn’t take as some kind of proposition and if you just tried to keep your mouth shut he would start propositioning _you_. You could understand your friends wanting to get rid of a guy like that but you have no idea why they’re letting Lalonde get away with her indulgences here and none of her ranting is making it any clearer.

“I swear Roxy, if he doesn’t clue the fuck in and stop treating everything like I’m coming on to him, I’m going to takes the Thorns and carve a horrorterror into his skin”

She wants you to wear her sign? She doesn’t just want you to wear it she wants to carve it into your skin with her needles? You can’t help yourself, at the thought of such debauchery you let out an involuntary trill.

She’s on you in a second, hands tight on your shoulders, shaking you against the wall as much as your restraints will allow. She’s saying something but your horns clash painfully against the hard rock of the meteor’s interior and the ringing in your head drowns out all the declarations of hatred she’s probably making. You do your best to flirt back through the ache and it’s all she needs to go on. She sinks her blunt alien teeth as deep as they’ll go into your shoulder, they’re not sharp enough to break your skin but you feel the promise of a bruise like no other in the clench of her jaws. This was the cue your bulge was waiting on, and it rushes out with a giddy slurping noise only to find itself still trapped within your stylish trousers. You let her know that if she keeps this up you’re going to get violet slurry everywhere and she actually screams at that, it’s only the rush of her dancestor pulling her back that prevents her from going to town on you right there.

They wrestle at each other for a short while to try and get Rose back under control. When she’s finally articulate again she takes a deep breath and lets out a short and terrifying sentence, so softly you can barely hear. 

“Roxy, I think the dust works on humans.”

\--

The empress would have gladly slept in a new lover’s arms any other night, and the woman herself certainly seemed to have fallen asleep, but with the hunger of the dust still riding through her veins and with her lights still persistently aglow along her front, she knows she cannot rest. Carefully depositing the two humans together to sleep off the rush of the night she and her moirail rise as one to look around the room for fresh indulgences. Seeing a scourge defeated and lying drained on the floor, puncture marks across necks, arms, chests, shoulders, thighs, fluids dripping the same colours from each set of pinpricks as those leaking from other more conventional orifices, the empress allows her red blooded moirail to run off and play ashen games of his own. His seemingly platonic relationship with the rainbow drinker had always been one of fascination to the fuchsia blood, her “otp” as a certain huntress might put it, and if she did not have her own needs to sate she would gladly watch the two at work, or perhaps join in. For now, however, she feels compelled to pay some attention to her flushed quadrant, spread over the opposite couches with his own moirail luxuriously sprawled across his lap, one of her hard-worked hands gently papping his cheek while the other tends to her own needs. It seems they’ve discarded their clothing at some time in the past but are still having trouble engaging in the spirit of the night, from the gold flush of her matesprit’s cheeks the empress knows her assistance will be needed if the two are to contribute to their race’s future in the expected manner.

Sauntering across the short distance between them, the fuschia blood does her best to put as much of a roll into her hips as she can, though staring down at the shapely thorax of the rust blood reclining on her matesprit she knows she couldn’t win in a contest of curves. It would be a close defeat, but the powerful fullness of her thighs would never beat the tight musculature evident along her arms, her waist, her hips. The few lauded scars that come to royalty were nothing compared to the mess of hard living born over the grey of her body, faded rust lines a mark of every adventure, every relic pulled from the earth, the marks of one of the best FLARPers to play the game, before an unfortunately early demise. Fortunately for the empress, this isn’t a contest. This game is going to be co-op.

Wordlessly the rust blood rises, easily a match for the height of her player two. The two wrap arms around each other and pull their thoraxes together in a wet slap of flesh. Their lips meet in a kiss designed to titillate their mutual quadrantmate, lying on the couches in the daze that only comes to those watching their deepest fantasies come to life in front of them. Though the clash of tooth and lip might be largely for show the curling of a deep ruby bulge against the entrance to her nook is as clear an expression of genuine interest as the empress needs. After the gentle attentions of her last partner the rake of rough claws over her back is a relief strong enough to leave the empress a chirring mess in the stronger arms of her metamour. She’s then surprised to find herself so roughly thrown into the lap of her flushed partner (though what partner of the evening has she not been flushed with?). The squeal of her matesprit as she crashes onto his scrawny thighs is worth the shock, and with a wet slap against her back she realises just how close she came to landing directly on his poor bulge. The twin heads of her gold dripping plaything begin to absently trace themselves across the sensitive skin of her lower back, like an inquisitive two headed snake rubbing itself flush against the warmth of her lights where they bisect at her tailbone to sweep around the line of her hips and meet just above her sheathe. She hardly has time to enjoy the sensation before the rustblood crashes to her knees just between the sorely abused legs beneath her, eliciting an expletive from the gold blood at her back.

“Sollux, you’re going to need to lift Feferi” the rust blood asks no questions, merely states what’s required and offers not alternatives. A shrug behind the empress is all the confirmation she receives before a crackling static erupts along her skin, perfectly even and lifting her into the air. A special treat then for a special night, the rarer powers of the yellow blood are not so usually applied when they entertain each other in private. Of the three, the empress wonders which of them is enjoying showing off the most tonight. She feels herself tilt backwards slightly, her nook offered up to the dripping ruby bulge in front of her and with the dust still in her system she’s blinded by the smell of it, the hunger it elicits from her nethers. She lets out a sob when instead of guiding it up and into her, where she needs it most, her metamour opts to wrangle the writhing appendage down and towards her own moirail. Blunt lowblood teeth close around the smooth curve of highblood rumblespheres, but experience has taught the rust blood not to try to emulate the needle-like bite of a seadweller, but to instead draw back and pull at the skin until her partner can’t help but whine with a combination of pain and wanting. 

Only at the sound of the highblood’s’ scream does she relent, licking the now tender flesh of the chest thrust up towards her. Hands circle around from behind her to massage the abused mass of her rumblespheres or perhaps simply to cop a feel at a convenient time. Her matesprit always was something of an opportunistic pervert. He’s trilling beneath her from unseen ministrations of his own moirail, prompting a spike of jealousy in the empress. She’s suddenly a wiggler of six sweeps again, being denied a toy she wants. She wants their bulges, both of them. She wants them filling her. She wants them to pail into her nook until red and rust and gold and fuschia can mix within her and run streaking down her thighs. She’s so hungry for them and she can only fix her pitchest glare at the woman above her, who would deny impetuous royalty its desires. Of course the spoilt wiggler act only elicits a grin from the rust blood, never one to defer to the hemospectrum at the best of times and certainly not when saying no leaves a grown troll wearing a pout that rightly belongs on a grub. A cruel hand reaches between the spread legs of royalty and teases achingly at the emptiness of her opening. Fingers dance tantalising across her entrance, swollen by the dust and so very wanting of attention. After a moment that feels like an eternity of anticipation the empress brings her own hands down, if the rust blood won’t oblige then she would see to herself.

“Sollux, hands.” is all she hears before her arms are pinned above her by an invisible grip. She chokes back a sob at the denial, she hadn’t even been able to get her clawtips damp before having her chance at pleasure ripped away. The smug grip of her traitorous matesprit tightens around her rumblespheres, fingers kneading at the flesh just enough to keep her interested, to keep her needing, but not enough to satisfy her on their own. Decorum rapidly falling away she snaps at the rustblood in front of her, cursing the curly-horned engineer of her desperation. Expletives fall to demands, fall to requests, fall to pleading, fall to begging. The grip on her chest grows softer with pity, the smirk from above her extends to completion and with a nod from his moirail, the goldblood slowly lowers the empress down.

She descends onto the tips of their entwined bulges, three points poking their way into her entrance, twisting just inside her in search of her seedflap deeper within. And then they stop, so, so, so wrongly they stop just at the opening of her nook, tips poking her but nothing to fill the need emanating from further within. She cries, begs the rust blood to give her relief, their mutual lover practically forgotten beneath the two of of them, despite his power holding her aloft the true struggle is, as always, that between the powerful women of Alternia. The empress lets herself be kissed, deeply and most pitch, in exchange for an inch lower. The promise of another inch has her begging in the most obscene language, for all of the party to hear. She doesn’t care. She can’t care. Her body screams at her to fill the void within with warm, rich slurry of all the colours she can muster and she needs these two. This heinous bitch and her cringing servant are what she needs within her more than she can stand.

At last, at long last, she’s allowed to be lowered down enough that the three-pronged assault can reach her innermost regions and unlock the pleasure she needs so badly. She’s sure the scream of satisfaction she lets out as she feels herself stretch around their bulges would rival the swan song of her lusus, but where the Vast Glub nearly ended the troll race this scream is a cry of life and new beginnings. Her arms finally released from above, she rakes her claws down her pitchmate’s back, hoping to stain her tips in deep ruby for making royalty wait such an unbearable amount of time. They kiss in a clash of fangs and lips, drawing blood on both sides to slick the warm flesh of their mouths.

In what seems like far too short a time the gold blood beneath her pumps his hips upwards and with a whimper releases himself into her. The flow of his material through the porous surface of his bulge begins a chain reaction, tipping the rust blood over her own edge until the feel of the two-tone flood of slurry into the fuchsia blood is enough to bring her to her own climax. A whimper below leading to a sigh above and a moan between the two. The empress feels her insides, growing swollen with the mixed payload she now bears. The bright red of her moirail, the gold of her matesprit and the deep ruby of her potential kismesis. After a night like this, after being pailed like that, there is definitely something for the empress to investigate in the curly-horned maid of time. With effort, she is certain this kismessitude could work.

\--

You are certain this kismessitude could not work.

Even leaving aside that none of these aliens seem to know the first thing about black romance she’s just far too all over the place with how she wants to play it. She keeps flipping between emotional abuse, hitting on you black, touching you pale, playing hard to get and then just going for it. All the while her dancestor is doing her best to play ashen but she’s got to be as confused the other one because she keeps letting her get away with the nonsensical stuff and only pulling her back once things start to get genuinely caliginous.

You need relief and you need it soon and between their mutual fumblings you’ll be lucky if you get to pail any time this sweep. With your hips belted to the wall you can’t even rut against the air, and your comfortable yet stylish pants are far too loose and fashionable for you to get any good friction against your bulge. All you’re doing is a lot of useless waving around in your underwear while your nook drips rich violet and aches for something to engulf.

After yet another intervention from her dancestor Rose is finally calm enough to turn back to you, to stare at you down the bridge of her nose, which you think is some mammalian sign of respect. “You want this, right? You need me to touch you? With the dust I’m not sure you even need proper black romance, you just need someone to touch you- fuck Roxy, it burns. Well I’ll do it Eridan, if you can just do one little thing for me. Just admit that I’m not interested in you. Just admit that Feferi’s not interested in you. Just admit that no one is interested in you unless they explicitly say so and I’ll touch you exactly where you need it. Just say it out loud and I’ll let you finish and we can all just go home and pretend nothing happened.”

“What, you just want me to lie?” Her hand is on your horn in an instant. You almost feel a burst of pity for that murderous rainbow drinker if her matesprit doesn’t even know it’s the hornbeds that are sensitive, not the horn itself. How does she expect you to get off if she’s just going to grab senseless bone?

She twists your head at a painful angle to get better access to your ear. Her lips are only inches away and you can feel the heat of her breath, like steam against you. She hisses “No, you ignorant, shitty bastard I’m trying to teach you something important here.”

Sad as it is, that might be the most romantic thing you’ve ever heard. All this time you’d thought she didn’t actually understand kismessitude, but here she comes out with the most beautiful hateful declaration you could imagine. She wants to make you better. Sure, she sucks at actually doing it, but her bloodpusher is clearly in the right quadrant for you. Even if the dust wasn’t compelling you to do whatever it takes to get your bulge squeezed you’d want to compete with her, to let her push you, make you into something better than what you are. “Yeah, yeah sure whatever I’m not interested in you.”

It must be exactly what she’s looking for because she drags the fingernails of her free hand down your exposed thorax, hard enough to actually leave sensitive violet tracks where she tried to carve you up. From the way your head tilts she must be holding onto your horn even tighter, you can see the muscles tensing along her forearm in a promise of rage. Her eyes, pupils swollen with the dust just as yours are, are full of fire and fury. She twists your horn such that you can’t look her in the eyes anymore and for a few moments all you can hear is her breathing, heavy pants against your ear that have nothing to do with exhaustion. “You arrogant prick. Listen to me very carefully. I want you to repeat exactly what I’m saying, got it?” You try to nod but can’t actually move your head from where she had it held. “Rose Lalonde.”

“Rose Lalonde.”

“Is not, nor will she ever be.”

“Is not, nor will she ever be.”

“Interested in.”

“Interested in.”

“Eridan Ampora.”

“Well now you’re just being unrealistic.”

Her dancestor is there before Rose can do anything, and as unsatisfying as it had been at the time you whine for the lack of her hand on your horn, as your neck stiffly tries to remember what shape it had been beforehand. The two aren’t wrestling this time, Rose simply has her head rested in the crook of her friend’s shoulder, breathing deeply, the hand that scraped its way down you rubbing absently into the crotch of her god tier outfit. You struggle uselessly against your bonds. It’s hardly sporting of her to see to her own needs while you’re stuck unable to even move your hips. Your bulge wiggles uselessly in the direction of the two women, still hopelessly trapped in your trousers, which are looking less stylish by the second for the faint violet stain beginning to emerge on the front.

Rose seems to collect herself and stalks cautiously back towards you. She’s not touching you this time, standing a metre back, which is still enough to fill your vision, and you can see just the faintest hint of violet where she was rubbing herself before. She’s taking deep breaths, slow, focused, trying to look you in the eyes though her gaze seems to keep dropping when she lets her breath out. It’s hard to tell at this angle but the line of her eyes seems to follow the lines she marked you with, down to your waistline and below. You do your best seductive wiggle given your limited mobility and score yourself a point as she swallows deeply. Finally she breaks the silence “We’re going to try this again. We’re going to try this exactly once. If you do not perform to expectations Roxy and I are leaving and you can ride out the rest of the dust trip on your own. Am I clear?” She takes your audible gulp for a yes. “You know what I want to hear.”

This is tough, you’re not sure lying is really a thing you’re good at, you always liked to think of yourself as a straight shooter, honest with your intentions even to a fault. But you can do it for her because you want her to do it with you. And you want her to do things to you. And once you’re out of these restraints you want to do things to her. So sure, you’ll go along with her weird fetish for dishonesty.

“Based on your actions and words, I Eridan Ampora, a noble seadweller of the planet of Alternia, can only conclude that you Rose Lalonde, earth-human and user of not-fake magic, do not find me in any way attractive.”

“Finally” is all she lets out before she’s hanging off your shoulders and her teeth sink deep, deep into your rumblesphere. It’s heaven.

\--

An empress reclines between her matesprit and kismesis, the two curled around her, a head rested on each side of her thorax. She glances about the room to see a scourge separated, back on their feet after their previous ravishing and now attending to newer dance partners. Teal is always a colour she finds appealing on her crimson blooded moirail, and seeing it running down his thighs now, mixed with the remnants of jade, is no exception. The jade blood herself has returned to her attentions with a cobalt pirate, looking suitably debauched for her profession. Their legs are so entangled it’s hard to tell which frond belongs to whom, but the sounds emanating from where they writhe on a hastily assembled pile of cushions are definitely ones indicative of possession. Across from the empress the aliens lie curled up, contented in their own alien way they touch each other with such gentle pity the empress can hardly contain a glub of joy. At the sight of the frankly pornographic pale coupling going on across from them the fuchsia blood’s companions join hands across her chest. Their own happy pale relationship at last cemented in something more concupiscent. 

Turning her attentions back to herself, the empress can see just how much of a mess she’s made. Her lights have lowered to a dim, happy glow and she can feel the fullness within her, the mix of all her lovers’ contributions swelling her stomach outwards with a noticeable bump. An idle hand from her kismesis draws the sticky multicoloured mess from between her legs and draws patterns across her chest, blurry spirographs of gold and crimson and ruby and fuchsia. She’s so warm and full and comfortable between her two hot-blooded partners, at last the dust’s urges can fade knowing she’s filled herself so much, with the future of her species secure inside her seedflap.

\--

You don't think you've ever pailed this much in your life. Your bulge stings where she tried to choke it to death. Your nook stings where she rammed her fingers into you with little to no concern for the delicate tissue inside. Your pride stings where she ground it into paste in exchange for a quick fuck. You try to meet her gaze but she's not even looking at you anymore, just staring at your slurry where it still coats her hand. With a slow gesture that doesn't look like it's any bit voluntary on her part she runs her tongue up her palm to her fingertips and moans at your taste. If this is what the dust has been doing to her it's a miracle she managed to keep the ice queen routine going until you pailed. If she was feeling half the need you were feeling, that you're still feeling while your body works to come back from the visceral explosion of pleasure and pain, then she is definitely in need of some major assistance.

“Roxy,” you're half disappointed she picks her dancestor to turn to over you. Surely you count as her kismesis now? She could untie you and then you could treat her to some of what she gave you, just like anyone in a good relationship would. “Roxy,” she keeps repeating, like she's having trouble articulating what her needs are. You do your best to mentally record what will surely be the only time in this or any universe that Rose Lalonde has been speechless. “Roxy, the dust is too much. I need you to,” She's clutching tight to her dancestor, her breathing laboured. “I need you to,” they're so close together you can't tell where one shock of lusus white hair meets the next. “Roxy, please.”

You watch helplessly as their lips meet and they crash backwards into the wall of your cell to paw at each other. You struggle in futility at your bonds as they continue to ignore you, pink painted nails sneaking, caressing down the side of orange fabric to lift it up at its base. You can do nothing as your kismesis rides her dancestor’s hand instead of your bulge. Their shared moans and whispers do nothing but wake your bulge up to stirring, flopping uselessly in the open air where Rose tore your pants open in a fit of rage and/or passion. 

It’s not long before Roxy rolls around to press Rose to the wall and drops down to her knees. You see some unspoken agreement pass between the two before the blue clad dancestor pulls aside the orange sari to get access to her friend’s strange human nook equivalent. You watch violet fingertips run through white hair because you can’t actually see what’s going on between Rose’s legs with her dancestor’s head blocking the view, but from the way she writhes against the wall and bucks her hips up with each sharp drawing of breath you can let your imagination run wild. Rose lifts a hand to caress her breast through her god tier robes and Roxy’s hand wanders behind to massage her rear at the same time. You see the tears beading at the corners of her eyes before she finally lets out a scream and slumps down to the floor.

They don’t even acknowledge you as they lift up off the ground, leaning into each other for support and staggering out the door. You shout after them but they don’t respond. You tell them they can’t just leave you here. They do. And as the door slams shut behind them, leaving you to the quiet contemplation of your cell, and the flopping length of your useless, barely satisfied bulge, you can only think one thing about the events of tonight.

Rose Lalonde _sucks_ at flirting black.


End file.
